


south beach

by justlikeswitchblades



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Baseball, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 20:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12733614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: It might be cliche to fall back on words that have been thrown around since high school, but a decade after graduation, Kazunari is still nothing less than a hawk.





	south beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephanericher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/gifts).



> read on to enjoy all the last names i googled (a pretty painstaking ordeal tbh)

It might be cliche to fall back on words that have been thrown around since high school, but a decade after graduation, Kazunari is still nothing less than a hawk. 

The way Taiga sees it, there's a universe somewhere where Kazunari is a lifer with Fukuoka, his name written on banners in broad-stroked calligraphy, flitting animations accompanying his name whenever he gets a run in. But as much as Taiga smiles at the thought, he smiles even more at the reality in front of him; Kazunari, so suited to American baseball that it makes him laugh. He's loud and vibrant, a shock of color, just like his team’s jersey. Taiga is tempted to say his personality is too large to be squeezed under a dome, too, but Yahuoku and Marlins Park both have retractable roofs, so the metaphor gets a little lost along the way.

He’s an expat of sorts, by virtue of life and career; maybe the stereotypes he holds of his homeland aren’t totally true.

If anything, he can be certain of this: it's damn good to see Kazunari in orange again.

Wise to keep his pen hand far from NPB paper, he’d been free to sign with the Royals’ double-A affiliate at nineteen. Rock-solid behind the plate, throwing signs, helping both rookies and vets up their near- or no-hitter games, he was the buzz of Arkansas journalists and bloggers, his picture climbing the prospect watchlist, but still relatively unknown outside of the organization. 

Until the Royals called him up to catch a game in the ALDS, where he hit a pop fly, one of those beautifully chaotic Fibonacci Sequence moments, two outfielders colliding in air but neither catching the ball, ushering two of his teammates in before stopping to catch his breath on second.

And then he did it again the next time he was at bat, sending the ball out of the park.

Retroactively, it still has the power to piss Taiga off. Blessed with defensive brilliance, only noticed in the bigs when he let them know he had a bat to bring to the table. But it still had impact, enough for the Royals to take the lead in a tied series, enough to make the news back in Japan. It was enough to make Midorima tweet his congratulations--in English, above all else (the motherfucker never tweets in English!), along with a washed-out high school photo. The two of them wearing dirtied orange uniforms, Kazunari’s arm slung around Midorima’s shoulder, Midorima wearing something pretty close to a smile. 

That tweet from the newly-minted Marlins ace must have sparked something in Miami. At 24, with only a few Major League postseason games under his belt, Kazunari’s contract was set to expire at the end of the season. The Royals scrambled, Arkansas and Kansas City and national sports radio all aflame with rumors of the catcher that had been left to sit in the minors. 

But Kazunari was already packing his bags, another million and a starting position awaiting him in the Sunshine State.

Four years into a six-year contract, it's hard to say whether Kazunari has peaked; as far as Taiga can tell, he just keeps soaring higher. His at-bat put him on the map, but his catching gets to shine here, as it rightfully deserves, Taiga thankful for the rare interleague series to see it up close. As for whether his popularity has affected his personality, well; he's still chatty as ever behind the plate. Even in the din of the stadium, it's all too easy for Taiga to pick out his chipper voice when he's warming up on deck, waiting for his first at-bat.

“Taiga!” Kazunari greets him in a voice like melted chocolate when he steps up to the plate, lip curling up behind his mask. “I’m glad you showed up.” 

It's the same voice he uses when he wants to pounce on Taiga, hands slipping around him, to guide him to bed, or the couch, or to the hot tub outside--which definitely means he's pissed at Taiga for staying at the team hotel last night. (His flight got in late! He was just trying to be courteous!)

“Kazu,” Taiga responds in turn, punctuated with the pop of his bubble gum. He squints in at the bearded pitcher, settling into his batting stance. “Got any loose change for me?”

“From Gutierrez?” Taiga breathes out a curse and hops back, and Kazunari lifts himself up, gloving the high fastball. “He's all pennies compared to Shin-chan.”

He tosses the ball back to the mound. The next ball is low, nearly in the dirt, still out of Taiga’s strike zone. Taiga looks back at Kazunari.

“You're _walking_ me?”

“What can I say?” Kazunari shrugs, his chest protector moving almost mechanically. “Your shortstop looks lonely out there.”

His smile drops a little, then, his expression going steely as he nods at the mound. The next pitch is a strike, straight down the middle. Taiga lets it go. 

“That mad, huh?”

It's petty. He knows it's petty, but this is the first time he's seen Kazunari in person since spring training; he wants Kazunari to call up his pitcher's best, to make him fight for an RBI. Kazunari deciding to walk him, though--that hurts. Taiga would rather he took off his mask and spat in his face in this Floridian heat.

“Look at it this way--I'm helping you save your strength for Shin-chan tomorrow.”

Taiga sets his jaw. There's a part of him that's halfway decent at acting, he thinks; he taps into it, and whiffs at the ball thrown just outside the bottom right corner. 

“You know I'm no good at being patient.”

“Me neither,” Kazunari laughs. “We can file a grievance with the pitching schedule together.”

The next pitch is in the dirt, gloved against Taiga’s cleat. He exhales audibly, rolls his shoulders, and jogs out to first. 

He can't be mad at Kazunari for long, though; how could he, watching him flourish like this? The way he stares out of his mask with laser-like intensity, trapping Taiga on second base, entranced by it. The lead he gets when he's on first base, so massive it nearly gives Taiga anxiety--and then, the way he pauses and leans in, the arch of his back, the curve of his ass, a display of soft power to Taiga out in right field.

If this isn’t Kazunari’s Gold Glove year, he’ll throw a fit for sure.

They cycle through the bottom of the first, and it isn't until the top of the third that Taiga finds himself back in the batter’s box. He crushes a line drive into the seats beyond left field, and the peal of Kazunari’s laugh as he jogs away makes him grin; there's no way in saying whether he called it up, but Taiga knows Midorima is the only one who can ignore Kazunari’s signs and get away with it. Any other pitcher who tried would be making a grave mistake.

There are some All-American types--rightie white guys with a few extra pounds on them--that form a chunk of the Marlins’ hitting core, holdovers from an older administration that contribute enough to be kept around. When Taiga gets switched into left at the bottom of the fifth, it's his own two-out buffet; you'd think the new management would know better and switch things up. The fans closest to him, daydrunk on a weekday, boo at his vertical, but he's had worse comments slung at him from less inebriated tongues. He can crack jokes with these guys, and they’ll try to wrangle him in for a selfie later; this is still a good time. 

Somehow, one Marlin finds his way onto second, thanks to a sacrificial bunt; another is on first, sending a ball towards Capelli at center that bounces just beyond his reach.

It isn't as easy to see out here, the sun bearing down from above, but Taiga’s watched this from the dugout before; he’s seen it on TV enough times to have the distant smears of detail turn high-definition in my mind’s eye. Kazunari, a strut in his legs, nodding along to his walk-up music, eyes hidden behind sunglasses but his smirk hiding nothing. The Marlins have him penciled in at cleanup; he's going to vault over Taiga’s early single and give his team the lead.

Taiga grins, but he's not sure out of what emotion. Having Kazunari at bat is just as thrilling as it is terrifying.

He almost laughs at the thought, but it _would_ be smart to walk Kazunari; he isn't exactly easy to predict. The more you pitch to his weak spots, the easier he finds those balls to hit. Nothing escapes Kazunari’s sight; he's a hawk through and through, and the thought makes Taiga shiver despite the sunshine.

He squints in at Kazunari, watching his hands, his arms, the wave of adrenaline that rolls through his body as he waits for the first pitch. Murray deals Kazunari a breaking ball; his bat slices through the air. He grins, mocking amusement about being bested, though Taiga wonders if it's more genuine than that--Kazunari honestly looks like he's about to wag his finger. Not that Murray's the type to be easily goaded--Taiga’s gotten better at rising above it himself--but the thought of it fires him up regardless. He allows himself the thought that the face Kazunari makes when the ump tells him to (presumably) get on with it is pretty cute, too.

The next pitch curves low, still in the strike zone; Kazunari sends it foul. There's no showboating this time as he adjusts his stance, lifting the bat back above his shoulder, now frowning with focus. He hits two more pitches into the seats off the third base line, just shy of the bullpen, and bounces on his toes.

Finally, he launches a fair four-seamer into the outfield, sending Taiga running in until Capelli calls it. The ball smacks solidly in his glove, but not before Kazunari passes first, quick to backpedal to the safety of the bag. Not what he wanted, but loading the bases is the next best thing--King is deadly at fifth in the order, and with him being a left-handed batter, all Taiga can do is pray for Fuentes in right field. 

Pray, and pity himself for a few seconds, feeling just a little bit jilted that Kazunari sent the ball closer to center than left. It’s psychological, he knows that. But, fuck, he wants to catch whatever Kazunari sends near him--a bloop close to the infield, a ball dealt to the gap, a hit that has him scaling the scoreboard, anything. There’s tomorrow night’s game, and the day game on Tuesday, and a wait that’ll have him listless till the All-Star Game if Kazunari doesn’t deliver--a listlessness that he can try to file away in the back of his mind by ticking up his RBI count and catching outs from other names, but a wait nonetheless.

Murray chokes, and King’s grand slam puts them on the scoreboard; Ruscatto comes in to relieve him at the mound. King is answered at the top of the sixth by a pair of doubles from Taiga and Luciano, their rocket at shortstop; Pasquale, the Marlins’ relief pitcher, ties the score up with a single at the bottom, five-five. Donovan, their leadoff man, follows with another single to give the lead back to the home team.

With two outs at the top of the ninth, Rhee hits a cutter just shy of 400 feet into right field, allowing Taiga to run from second to home, sliding headfirst and just evading Kazunari’s tag at the plate--panting, his mask on top of his helmet, sweat making the hair that’s long enough stick to his cheeks. He grins despite the circumstances. The game is tied again, six-six. Fremont, unwilling to slip again, devours Blumenthal with a punch-out right after. 

Arcia looks loose, just the right amount of loose. It’s just three outs, and they’ll be in extra innings--not that he’ll be able to last that long as a closer, but they’ll have more than half a bullpen left to deal with the Marlins if he gets them there. 

Nine pitches, minimum. He’s more than capable of getting them there.

The first out comes on Kazunari’s pop to second, gloved easily by Rhee. King is three-two when Arcia ends up walking him. Unintentional, but his conference with Halverson is brief; he still looks solid when he sends his catcher back to the mound. 

And then, it’s over. Costoya smashes a fastball far over Taiga’s head, higher than he could ever reach at the height of his vertical, into the stands. Music blares as King and Costoya round the bases to make it eight-six, Marlins. There are still two outs left to end it, but the Angels can’t come back from this. 

The march back to the locker room is close to merciful, if anything, with Arcia fielding a grounder that beats the runner to first, and securing the final punch-out right after. But it still ends a five-game win streak for the Angels, the first of six games on the road, and while losses don’t personally hurt Taiga as much as they used to, it still sucks.

If anything, he’s gotten better at moping less. 4th place in the American League is still above the Marlins at 7th in the NL, and three RBIs in a game is still something to smile about. It’s closer to six o’clock when he gets out of the stadium, sun leaking into the parking garage, with plenty of time to go out and grab dinner with Kazunari. He squeezes himself into Kazunari’s Jaguar F-Type convertible, his knees knocking against the glovebox. He had the foresight to at least roll the top down, but it still makes Taiga miss his truck, for a moment. 

“You never did hit that growth spurt in high school, did you?”

Kazunari looks at him, from over the tops of his blue aviators.

“I’m happy to let you make up for the lost inches, Taiga,” He grins. “Speaking of, you better not lean your seat too far back, unless you want me getting ideas.”

“It’s been three months, Kazu,” Taiga lets his voice drop lower, leaning his seat a notch further back than usual. “You better have some ideas.”

“Fuck,” Kazunari exhales, fingers sliding over the console to touch Taiga’s knee. “You know I do.”

His fingers stay there, as he pauses, clearing his throat.

“I didn’t mean for it to be personal, walking you,” He admits seconds later, pushing his sunglasses into his hair. His voice is still soft, though momentarily freed from lust. “I know you didn’t mean for last night to be personal, either. But you have a spare key, Taiga. I missed you. I’d wake up at any hour for you.”

“I know,” Taiga sighs, placing his hand on top of Kazunari’s. “I put it with the keys to the SUV, but then I drove the truck to the airport, and I didn’t realize till I was going through security, and, I just felt stupid. I know I should’ve called you, I’m sorry.”

“You should’ve called me,” Kazunari smiles. “But I forgive you--as long as you spent the next few days at my place, of course.”

“Of course, Kazu,” Taiga grins. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive me if I didn’t.”

Taiga’s fingers close around Kazunari’s; he sits up far enough to allow himself to lean over, if he wants to. And God, he _wants_ to--three months is a given with their situation, even generous during the regular season. He’s been _aching_ for Kazunari, for more of him beyond texts and DMs and phone calls, and nudes, and highlight reels, and that fact that his own caution supersedes that--to cast a look around the parking garage, to make sure there are no bystanders or security cameras around to spot them--it drives the dagger in to the hilt. But it’s not like Kazunari is reckless; there’s the same quick glance out of the corner of his eye, even when he’s moving to meet Taiga in the middle. 

Kazunari tastes like cherry Chapstick--at least he had the foresight to apply some kind of lip balm after spending a sweaty afternoon on the field--smells like that one cologne in the red bottle that Taiga likes in particular, not that he bothers to discriminate too much. It only makes him want to kiss Kazunari more, and even though Taiga knows he smells like Old Spice, Kazunari still takes his hand off the steering wheel, fingers grasping at the gray of Taiga’s t-shirt to hold him close. A step beyond chaste, but not quite as far as they could go--Taiga is close to panting when they part, eyes narrowed, his hand cupping Kazunari’s cheek.

“Kazu.”

“Taiga,” Kazunari eyes him back, his voice just above a whisper. “I don’t do all these squats just to make my car smell like sweat.”

“Well, they sure make your ass look good,” Taiga leans back into his seat and grin, resting his arm on top of the closed door.

“Hey,” Kazunari flips his glasses back down. “It’s a side effect we can both enjoy.”

They take the scenic route back to Kazunari’s place, going west so Taiga pick his suitcase up from the hotel, then back east, past the stadium, crossing over the causeway to South Beach. Anaheim is further from the ocean; not far enough to make him antsy, but inland enough to not smell like the sea. The salt in the air fills Taiga’s lungs. The wind’s in his hair, the Atlantic looks more emerald than the darker teal he’s used to, but maybe he can sneak out on Monday and rent a board, catch some waves and the sunrise. Kazunari can come and watch him--or, if he’s too sore, they can go in the afternoon and sunbathe together, and hope no one recognizes them.

This is their third season navigating being together like this, and they’re smart enough to know that they should go out and get dinner first, that the two granola bars that Taiga inhaled after the game were barely enough to keep him running, let alone to sustain him through burning more calories. But sex is just as much of a need as hunger seems to be--not as urgent as the clawing feeling in his stomach, not so intense that the both of them agreed on rolling the convertible top back up in the parking garage--but it still has Taiga’s thumb swiping over the back of Kazunari’s hand on the gearshift when they roll up to his historic-hotel-turned-luxury-apartment, Kazunari palming Taiga’s crotch when they get into the elevator. 

They try to take it slow, to minimize the soreness they’ll be feeling in the morning, but not too slow--Taiga noting the new decorating in Kazunari’s apartment with an impressed noise in the middle of a kiss, but walking into the bedroom with Kazunari, saving his comments for later. Taiga savors the feeling of Kazunari underneath him, the hard muscles of his thighs under his fingertips, how Kazunari bites his lip and whines, fingers thrust into his own hair, leaning against the wooden headboard, caught in indecision as he lets a hand go to the back of Taiga’s neck, to the wider span of his back, the other slow to join as his breath hitches.

Taiga’s on his back, condom peeled off but still not quite cleaned up. Kazunari’s on his stomach beside him, face buried in his pillow, laugh muffled as Taiga’s stomach growls, petulant. Taiga rolls his eyes, smiling, fingers trailing over the bad tan line at Kazunari’s waist, lazily squeezing his ass--not that his tan is any less obnoxious.

“Have you ever,” Taiga begins, casting his eyes over to Kazunari. “Thought about going to a bar together?”

“Sure, we can go drinking,” Taiga watches as Kazunari gropes blindly, his hand settling on his chest. “I always held my liquor better than you.”

“True,” grins Taiga. “But, you know. A gay bar.”

Kazunari props his chin up, lips pursed. He looks over at Taiga. “You never seemed to be interested in the culture of it all.”

“I mean, not really,” He shrugs. “Could be fun?”

“Could get us both fired, too,” snorts Kazunari.

“Well, yeah,” Taiga shrugs. “Just a fantasy.”

Kazunari licks his lips. He raises an eyebrow. “You want to watch me dance up on someone, Taiga?” 

Taiga’s gaze travels up, then back down Kazunari’s spine, fingers tangling together on top of his chest.

“As long as you come back to me.”

“Of course,” Kazunari leans over, smiling as he pecks Taiga on the lips. “You know I will.”


End file.
